The Humour of the Situation
by Chibikat the Canuck
Summary: Sometimes, when you're staring into the abyss of pure and solid depression, evil, and all-around badness...you've just got to laugh. (Ron POV)


Disclaimer: Were I the sole owner, proprietor, and all-around creator of Harry Potter, then it would probably be renamed "The Magically Wild And Gay Adventures of Rambunctious Schoolboys and Selected Professors", and be sold only at the finest pornographic outlets. So, obviously, I don't own it. Wheehee.  
  
Rating: PG-13, simply because of self-mutilation, and my disclaimer. Honestly. That's it. Oh, and swearing. Heh...  
  
Author's Notes: Literally, I sat down and wrote this in a couple hours, with absolutely no point, plot, or characters in mind. o_o Yes, I realize that I'm an idiot, and no, there sadly is nothing I can do about that certain affliction of mine.  
  
This is from Ron's point of view, which is a first for me. There's also no (or at least very, very few) mentions of sex, which is also extremely unusual, if it's coming (snerk) from me. Colour me weird, tonight.  
  
Finally, please take what I write with a grain of salt. What I say is not the know-all and end-all of...uh, all. It's just one point of view among the sea of many, and I just don't think that this one has really been explored before. So, meh, thought I'd try something new. ^_^  
  
On with the show.  
  
~*~  
  
The Humour of the Situation  
  
~*~  
  
In my life, I've found that, if nothing else, humour will carry us through right to the bitter end. Some people would probably argue with me and say that love is the ultimate driving force in the world; and, I guess, they're right too. But you don't have to have your best mates or your spouse around you to find the humour in a situation; heck, you don't even have to be thinking about them to come to the conclusion that something is ridiculous, ironic, or just plain stupid.  
  
Although, admittedly, it really helps if you've got your closest of the close milling about you if you're about to stare right into the eyes of death, and proceed to giggle like an idiot. You'll make a complete fool of yourself (if you live) when you've got those you love around you, but at least you won't be making a mess of your nicely pressed pants.  
  
I read somewhere once that crying and laughing were kind of (almost) sort of the same thing, once you boiled right down to it: your body needs a way to release a really powerful emotion, and two of the most powerful emotions we, as people, have in our arsenal is pure joy and pure depression. When we're sad, we cry. When we're happy, we laugh. Of course, on occasion, nice and sane people get mixed up and cry at weddings. I still don't understand that. Women - what goes through their brains, eh?  
  
Anyway. I figure that, if I'm presented with the choice of wallowing in a black hole of deathly badness and, as a result, I bawl my poor eyes right out of their sockets; or, instead, I could laugh like a moron and try to boost my levels of relatively elated elation, I'd so pick laughing any day of the week. For one, it doesn't involve salty discharge from the eye sockets and gooey discharge from the nostrils, and it also is (according to that same book I read - and, if it's in a book, it *has* to be true), actually good exercise. I alone eat enough pastries to last the entire population of Belgium for at least a week. It's a wonder I can see my toes.  
  
But then again, I never really did sweat the small stuff. Or the potentially big stuff, in the case of my weight. I'm just, generally, a happy fun ball of sweatless smiles. Well, except when I get angry; that's when, ah, laughter doesn't quite suit me as well. My friends know well of the infamous Weasley predisposition to random bouts of fury. One time, Ginny couldn't get her hair quite right for the Yule Ball, and she just...well, the shrieking and screaming and general tantrum-ness of it all nearly scared off her date. Little prick that he was. Thank God she dumped him. What was his name...Billy? Willy? Milly - no, that's a girl's name. Never mind.  
  
However, facing a Weasley tantrum is far, far less than equivalent to impending and certain doom. You-Know-Who, for example - *that* son of an arsehole's bitch will easily meet your daily quota of Evil Bastardness. Everything you need, all in one handy package of death. Why settle for less? Submit now, and I'm sure he'll throw in an extra round of torture and death for you to inflict upon people - not to mention a nifty tattoo, burned right into your flesh! Coupons possibly accepted. Discount for the elderly and family members. Free balloons for the kids. And, obviously, no refunds.  
  
Dammit, I *hate* that man.  
  
Is he really a man? Seriously. The first time Harry fought him, he lived on the back of a stuttering professor's skull. That's just...not right. I don't know of any other person who's rented space that small.  
  
...I stand by my scruples. Humour, no matter how terrible or corny, is still humour. Beats self-mutilation. I caught Harry trying to do that once; you should've seen his arms, they looked like a Tic-Tac-Toe board gone horribly wrong, as drawn by a psychopath. Now, I'm not saying that Harry's psycho or nothing - God, far from it - but it made me angry, you know? Angry and sort of hurt that he'd do that to himself.  
  
I guess I don't understand. I mean, there I was, getting myself all ready for bed, because we've got this huge Transfiguration test in the morning. Usually I hit the sack later than everyone else, simply because I imbibe so much coffee and sugar during the day that my bloodstream has slowly mutated into a running current of pure stimulant. Well, that particular day had royally gipped me of my much-needed drugs; I had awoken late, thus missing breakfast, and it was, like, National Health Food Awareness Day or something (because the Ministry has nothing better to do, apparently). So, of course, no sugar for me. I was completely wiped. Exhaustion had hit me like an angry girlfriend upon finding out I'd forgotten our anniversary.  
  
Not that I've ever experienced that.  
  
Anyway, so I decide to go up to bed, just for the hell of it. It was at one of those in-between times, though - everyone sane is asleep or, at least, getting there, but it's not so late that a few stragglers can't be found. Now, since I'm Prefect, I've got run of the joint (at least, the boys' side), and I can order these people to bed, because abusing power is actually rather fun, as long as it's all in good, uh, fun. I generally check the bathrooms, to make sure there isn't anyone...oh, let's say for this case, cutting themselves open with a knife they'd stolen from the Great Hall.  
  
My jaw nearly hit the floor. Actually, it did, because as I tried to rush over to him, I slipped on a rather gross mixture of tap water and blood that had, somehow, managed to find itself on the floor. I'll admit, that wasn't really smooth of me, but frankly, smoothness has never been, and never really shall be, my forte.  
  
I did my best not to panic, but considering that I was watching my best friend tear his skin open and was letting it bleed all over the damn place, I couldn't help but freak extremely out. I grabbed the knife, tossed it away, and then I proceeded to yell.  
  
And oh, can we Weasleys *yell*.  
  
"What are you doing?! You're bleeding everywhere, you stupid sod! Oh my God, I slipped on your *blood*, have you any idea how *wrong* that is?! What have you - Jesus Christ, there's blood seeping through your shirt, you cut your *stomach* too! Weren't your arms enough-?!" At this point in time, magical spells had completely escaped my little mind, and for the next few minutes, I attempted to simultaneously stop the bleeding on his arms with my robe, and stuff toilet paper down his shirt to do basically the same thing on his stomach.  
  
It was absolutely, positively ridiculous. In fact, after Harry had gotten over the shock, he started laughing. I stared at him as if he was a complete loony, and decided to yell some more.  
  
"What's so funny, huh? What, do you think bleeding is hilarious, or something?! 'Cause if you do, I swear you're gonna be rolling on the floor and laughing your skinny arse off once I get through with you for - hey, you put that toilet paper back in your shirt, no more bleeding for you, I take it back, WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING-?!"  
  
Once he proceeded to take out all the wadded up (and, mind you, red) balls of toilet paper out from under his shirt, he withdrew his wand from my robe.  
  
"Curaga," he said quietly, with a small smile on his face. I watched as all the various cuts on his arms sealed up of their own accord; it was actually like watching a scab form, but in extremely fast motion. The little crusties came right off with a dust here and a dust there of fingers on skin, and his arms looked as if he'd never had the sudden urge to go blade-happy on himself.  
  
My jaw moved without sound for a few moments.  
  
"Oh," I said simply.  
  
Now, by this time, my yelling had garnered a crowd of shocked, confused, and generally tired Gryffindor boys. Actually, one of the first years fainted. Harry, looking a bit like a burglar who'd just been caught stealing valuables from an uptown retail establishment, sort of looked over the group of people, before clearing his throat.  
  
"Sorry about this," he said to the group; and, in retrospect, to me too. "Just go back to bed, okay? Nothing's going on here."  
  
"B-but Harry, the blood..." Neville whispered, his eyes wide. Yes, the blood was still everywhere, because a curing spell is not also a cleaning spell. My mouth had gone a bit dry by this point.  
  
"Nothing. It's nothing. Go back to sleep," Harry told them. He waved his wand again, and quietly stated "Decleansa!". The blood and water puddles disappeared instantly, along with the queasy amount of red that had been draining slowly down the sink.  
  
"See?" Harry said, smiling once again. "Really. Nothing to get worked up about."  
  
I really doubt anybody believed him; but, since they were his friends, the group of boys did what Harry asked of them, without further question. Except, actually, for me. I was still sort of freaked out. Not that you can really blame me, or anything. Large amounts of blood and I don't get along. Especially when said amounts of blood were coming from one of my closest friends.  
  
Harry stared at me. I stared at Harry. A few seconds later, Harry burst into laughter again. Peals upon peals of simple, pure laughter.  
  
I didn't know what else to do but sort of watch him as he laughed much, much harder than I'd ever heard him laugh in a very long time. He clutched the sink, leaning over a little bit as he continued to hoot, smiling widely. The knife (now clean) still sat in the sink; but, to my relief, he didn't make a move for it again.  
  
He looked at me, and grinned through his laughter.  
  
Shakily, I returned it with my own, sort of warbled smile.  
  
"Harry? Now, come on, you're kinda scaring me," I said lightly. He continued to laugh, and I moved slowly forward to him, letting out my own nervous chuckle. He still looked at me, and he still was laughing loudly - actually, *too* loudly, really. Cautiously, I put my hand on his shoulder.  
  
"Harry, snap out of it, you're acting nutters. And coming from me, you know that it's gotta be right, eh?" I asked him, inserting another worried laugh of my own.  
  
Still laughing, I saw Harry's bottom lip tremble. Before I knew it, his laughter had suddenly transformed into loud sobs, and he was hugging onto me for dear life.  
  
I think it was fair to say that I was confused beyond all possible reasoning. See, I'll admit that I'm not exactly the sharpest tool in the shed when it comes to feelings and all that touchy sort of stuff. Give me a Wizard's Chess board, and I'm smart as a Cat O' Nine; but present me with emotional problems, and...well, call me a tourist, because I become right lost in that foreign sort of place.  
  
He cried for a good five minutes or so; if he said anything, I couldn't really make it out, but to be honest, I wasn't paying all that much attention to actual word formations of his. I was still, honestly, shocked. It all felt kind of surreal; sort of like being in a Pensieve, you know? You're watching it, and you know what's happening is (or, at least, was) real, but there's definitely a detachment from it all. Nothing really is supposed to effect you.  
  
It felt like that when Harry half-cried, half-laughed. It was just...it was too weird, and too unnatural for it to actually be happening at that exact moment.  
  
"H-hey, come on, don't feel so bad...I didn't mean to yell; you know I'm an idiot, don't you? Of course you do, you hang around me all day," I said to him as he clung to me, his breath hitching. I laughed anxiously.  
  
"Sorry," he stated quietly.  
  
"Don't be. I just...y'know, um, blood and all...kinda panicked, you know?"  
  
There was a rather awkward pause in conversation. I figured I might as well ask the question that had been nagging at my mind for the past twenty or so minutes.  
  
"Why were you doing that, Harry?"  
  
He shifted a little, looking down as he wiped his eyes on his sleeves. Poor guy. Man, I felt so bad for him - I mean, I guess a part of me already sorta knew the answer to *why*; after what had happened to Cedric, to Sirius, there's only so much one person can take. Harry's always been quiet and withdrawn; that's one of the reasons I liked him in the first place. People as loud and outgoing as me need someone relatively down to earth to keep us from floating away permanently. So, now, I was actually rather scared. I didn't want to see Harry lost forever in depression; which, it seemed, was a completely plausible way for things to be in the near future. You-Know-Who, after all, was tattooing more people than that guy who lives down the street from Hermione (she'd told me about him; "He changed his name to Lestat and covered himself with piercings and needle- imprinted pictures of death. Mum thinks he has a crush on me - of course, she *would*, too.").  
  
Harry didn't look up at me this time.  
  
"It makes me laugh."  
  
I blinked.  
  
"Wha-?"  
  
"I don't know why, Ron, but it's just funny. Here I am, the Savior of the Wizarding World, a-and I can barely control *myself*, mind a potential army, or whatever th-the hell's going to happen. V...Voldemort..." Due to years of imprinting and training, I couldn't help my reaction when I flinched at the Death Man's name. Harry continued on.  
  
"He's supposed to be my enemy. M-my worst enemy. But sometimes I feel like he isn't, Ron; I know that he should be, I *know * I should fear a-and hate him above everything else, but I can't. It's...I hate *me*."  
  
He laughed strangely.  
  
"I just think it's ironic, you know? The one everyone shouldn't be afraid of is Vold-demort, but...me. Wait until they find out, huh?"  
  
I stared down at Harry. Half of me had no clue what he was saying (or, at least, refused to have a clue), but the other knew exactly how he felt. Harry Potter was always one who seemed to saddle the blame on himself; always the tragic hero to the very end, he took everything as seriously as he could, because that's what was needed of him at the time. There was an enemy to fight, and the good guy had to win. No matter that the cost was Sirius, or Cedric, or...or whoever happened to be conveniently next.  
  
That was one of the few things in life that ever made me really, truly sad.  
  
Harry quietly laughed again.  
  
"S-sorry that I scared you. It's easier to laugh than to cry, is all. Too much to cry about, now," he murmured; obviously, he was tired, and now that I thought of it, so I was I.  
  
I furrowed my eyebrows in worry. What the hell am I supposed to say to something like *that*?  
  
"I'm sorry," I said again, feeling utterly useless.  
  
"Not your fault," he mumbled in reply, his breath still hitching a little here and there.  
  
Silence.  
  
"Things'll be okay," I assured him.  
  
"You don't know that," Harry stated quietly. And, frankly, he was quite right - I had no idea how everything was going to turn out. I'm not a Seer.  
  
I smirked a little bit.  
  
"We'll just ask Hermione for the answer in the morning, then. She seems to know everything after all, right?" He looked up at me, obviously not expecting such an answer. Neither was I, actually.  
  
There was another moment of complete quietness. I grinned at him, and Harry laughed again; however, it sounded to not be agonizingly stressed, but actually, rather light, if not almost a whisper.  
  
"Yeah, she does," he barely uttered.  
  
I'm not sure how much longer we were there, but I guess in the end it doesn't really matter. I've always thought that I was lucky that I could just sort of laugh at everything; people like Harry and Hermione tend to bottle up stuff inside of them, until one day it explodes. For Harry, it just sort of happened to combust in the form of sharp things digging into soft things giving way to red, liquid things.  
  
In the same way that Harry grounds me, I think (I hope) that I also, if not just a little bit, lift him. I care about him a lot, but it's hard for me (for most guys) to really, properly show it. If a stupid joke here and a random smile there helps to get my message across, then I guess I'm doing a halfway decent job of being a good friend.  
  
If laughter is the very best medicine, then I've got to be the greatest MediWizard for at least two kilometers. Laughter, for me, just lets it all go - pain, guilt, sadness, regret...all of it, just gone, released to the wild to never, ever return.  
  
So, I guess, I'm here to help the people around me let it all go. I think I've gotten used to the fact that I'm not gonna be some great wizard like Harry will without a doubt become. My role isn't to be the hero that people admire; I'm not here to be praised, nor to save the world. Sometimes, in my least humble moments, I like to think I've got one of the most important jobs - nay, talents - of all time.  
  
Laughter brings hope, I guess. Hope's a powerful, powerful thing; it can drive people to really go for their dreams, to achieve their desires, and ultimately, make them happy.  
  
After all, everyone - even the tragic hero - needs some comic relief from time to time.  
  
~*~  
  
Certainly not one of my best pieces, but that's what I get for just sitting down and making it up as I went along _-_ Yay Ron.  
  
So, uh, yes. Reviews? Reviews are good. You know they are. Ohh yes.  
  
~Chibikat 


End file.
